


In It's Quiet, Lovely Voice

by glockenspielium



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pete's World, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockenspielium/pseuds/glockenspielium
Summary: She is all shades of yellow, and he is something of a mess. 
[for lizann5869 as part of the 2016 Secret Santa exchange]





	

Rose is still asleep. One hand tucked beneath the plush pillow, the other thrown across the mattress, fingers nearing the edge. Her face is half nestled in the blankets, curled around her in a soft, warm nest. It's still completely dark outside, but the yellow light of the safety lamps outside is more than enough for the Doctor to make out her long lashes against her cheeks, still darkened by yesterday's mascara, and the smallest of gaps between her two lips, soft and slackened in slumber. She is all shades of yellow, really, much like the world outside at night. Bright, beguiling, cautious and mellow; though never all at once.

  
He could easily pass more time picking out her features in the half light, as he often did when he couldn't sleep. It helps to pass the time, its surprisingly calming.   
But for whatever reason, and he could surely come up with something if pressed, instead he opts to ease his lanky frame carefully off the springy mattress, doing his best not to disturb Rose with either creak or excessive motion. Gathering the spare blanket over his shoulders and the fluffy slippers he'd rescued from Jackie's donation basket almost a month ago, the Doctor edges his way around stacks of books and precariously balanced equipment. He makes it to the kitchen without hazard then pauses.

  
What was he doing in the kitchen?

  
It would be easy to name any number of reasons his thoughts were all over the place. The whole metacrisis affair only ranked in the top five, with interdimensional transportation and genocide somewhere in there, as well. But, to be perfectly honest, the past two days had been more exhausting that he'd have thought they would be. Sleep hadn't come easy between packing and moving boxes, negotiating street officers and scanning all their belongings. Surely moving house wasn't this hard in every universe- it definitely wasn't in the last one he'd been in. Then again, he'd never done this personally before. And he'd certainly never have considered it without the considerable aid of the TARDIS and her storage and transportation capacities.

  
He doesn't dwell on how much more he misses about his TARDIS than just that. It does him no good to ruminate over impossibilities.

  
And besides, Rose had said she wanted to move out, so that was that. They'd spoken about it, joked mostly, long years ago. About picking out bathtubs and which feet were the most attractive and least dangerous. About whether there should be a cat door installed just in case. About having a spare, sound proof room for Jack. But that was a long time ago, and this was now. This was their own little moment of forever.

  
It comes to him suddenly in a spark of rememberance and he snaps his fingers triumphantly. _Tea_ , that's what he was going to do next.

  
This is one thing he has always been good at, in any universe he's been in.

Fixing himself a large cup, and pilfering a few cookies from the jar Jackie gave them for good measure, he tiptoes back across the apartment but this time heads to the balcony, sliding the glass door across as quietly as he can, mug and biscuits precariously balanced between his chest and his left elbow.

  
Settling down on one of the plastic chairs, the Doctor blows across the top of his tea. The skyline of London is slowly coming to life with the rising sun blooming in orange across the sky scrapers. The view is dissimilar enough to the London he knows to be remarkable, though he's seen enough versions of London to be well accustomed to her changing face. But then again, at least they had some consistency, some understanding of maintaining pattern and purpose. Here, the city is grossly overpopulated, refugees swarming to where there should be work and welfare. The Thames is long gone, replaced by the Sonic Train system, which in itself has united Europe in a way he hasn't seen in many centuries. It's fascinating, but unsettling. Or maybe that's more down to the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he's stuck on the slow path again. Though maybe stuck isn't quite how he'd describe it, not anymore.

  
"There you are."

  
The words come as a gentle exhale from behind him. He didn't even hear the door slide open, but Rose is nudging her way past him to sit on the second chair beside him, to pinch half of a biscuit from between his fingers and smile beguilingly at him from behind sleepy eyes.

  
He says, "I didn't want to wake you."

  
She answers- "You didn't wake me."

  
They fall into easy silence, the city emerging out of quiet beneath them with each passing minute. He passes her the mug of tea and they exchange sips like secret stolen moments caught between their lips, and neither is sure who moved their chair first, but eventually they are close enough that Rose can rest her head comfortably on the Doctors shoulder, as he absentmindedly combs through her short hair with his free hand.

  
"It's easier than you think." She starts, then continues before he can query her comment, "The long way round. The slow road, I mean, living day to day."

  
He doesn't say anything yet, sensing her pause as premature. She nestles further into the nook of his neck, her words warm against the skin there.

  
"It's hard, sure. When I first got here, I thought I might die of exhaustion and boredom at the same time, I couldn't work out why I was always tired and always awake- but you'll work it out, I know you will. I mean, it's not the first time you've done this, is it."

  
The unsaid 'but it will be the last' lingers, but he doesn't press the issue.

  
"I don't know how long it was," he starts, softly, "I travelled a lot between Canary Wharf and- erm. I lost track of your time. I wasn't even sure if this universe ran along the same trajectory as yours, as your original one, I mean."

  
Damn. This is coming out all wrong.

  
But, she answers. "Three years."

  
And he said, "Oh."

  
He means more, but he hopes that she understands nonetheless. He takes another sip of his tea. And then he speaks.

  
"I can't sleep, yes, but that's nothing new. And this path, the slow path, you're absolutely right, I have done it before, and it's not impossible. It's different, but sometimes different can be good. And sometimes staying still can be good too, though Rassilon knows I wouldn't be the first to admit it." He pauses, passes her the mug. "But there's two points I have to disagree with you on, I'm sorry."

  
Rose snorts softly into the tea. But she's smiling as she places it down onto the table and leans back so she can look him in the eye as she asks.

  
"Is that so?"

  
He nods, once. Firmly.

  
"Yes, I'm afraid so. See, you're assuming that because you've accomplished something, I will be able to as well. Now, we both know that's just perfectly untrue. You've accomplished many things I couldn't have in a million years- you found your way back across the fabric between our worlds when I couldn't," Her cheeks blush slightly at the mention of this, "and you actually managed to find Jackie something for Christmas she'll actually like!"

  
A soft laugh accompanies her pink cheeks and it tastes something like victory but he's not done yet.

  
"And secondly, this is the very first time I've taken the slow path with, ah. With someone else. With you." Now he flushes a little, pausing to screw his eyes shut and rub at his brow. "Not that that makes it harder or worse, on the contrary! But, it does make it more important to do it right, the first time around. The only time around. I'm not used to no second chances, and frankly it's a little frightening. I can't mess this up- I don't want to. I really don't want to, but it's inevitable that I will, eventually-"

  
When he opens his eyes again, hers are crystal blue staring directly at him and he pauses, not sure whether she's about to laugh at him or maybe cry, but a single heartbeat later and she's leaning forward and pressing her lips softly against his, gently like a promise, and that's a far better option than he'd hoped for. His hands find their way to the back of her neck, the small of her back, and they pause there, together, foreheads pressed together, noses barely a whisper apart.

  
And she says, "You're an idiot, you know?"

  
And he answers, "Your idiot, I hope."

  
Her lips are ardent in what feels like reassurance and tastes like affection, but he'll question it later and she'll help him along the way. For now, they bundle together over the streets of London, a new language for a new beginning.

  
And, as her lips ghost back over his, the feeling of her smile, so close to his, so much more beautiful that he could ever have imagined it to be, the slow road doesn't seem anything other than right where they belong. 


End file.
